See the waxen-faced, filmy-eyed poet Swoon over the plight of a derelict With dusk-suffused, scatological rhymes, Which his fleshless hand on paper unwinds. But what anemic-romantic rhymer Can’t talk of God, gardens, and fat desire? But by God he means sin, and by gardens, God, while lust is contempt and confusion. Dimwit laureate of contempt for man, You try to escape yourself with a pen And wish your flesh would dissolve into stars, Which are man-made gods – a false salve that scars. Trafficker in spirits and redeemers, In false causalities and sick dreamers, Your weakling’s verse we here abjure in joy, Our first edict as the future’s envoy. Raise the flesh and mind and slay the old soul. The wraith bleeds our inborn freedom it stole. Our majestic man saunters and laughs bright And takes refreshment in nature’s delights. Frail poet, in frigid stars you see him. His power is the sun warming your limbs. Pears glowing gold are his sweet perfection. His jests are wind, and his flight, a falcon.